A postulation on a spiral staircase,
each rung fashioned in every cell of my being,
passed from one generation unknown
to the next. My lungs inhale
chill laden breath and I am at ease.

I am native to this acclimation.

Somewhere my alphabet of four letters,
my twisted ladder of encoded knowledge
begins where flakes mass, light is vague,
and sound is pillowed into nullity.

I am of a sanctuary of snow,
my tribe’s nucleus bequeathed to me.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Unlike any other time, when the first snow falls, well, at least four of five inches, I feel my body relax. I am not one who thrives in bright sun, hot breezes, and sunglasses.

Today we had such a snow.

As I reached the crest of Smoky Hill, the vast sky was grey, flakes were falling, and snow covered the front range of the Rocky Mountains filled my view. I breathed more deeply, my grip on the steering wheel loosened, and a small voice inside my head whispered, “Finally.”

I’ve been reading about how scientists are finding that trauma from the past of those who were tortured or abused, that those events actually change their DNA. It is then passed on to future generations who can experience the trauma themselves years and years later. If this is true, then it must partially explain my deep connection to snow and soft grey skies and cold chilly air.

I thank my tribe, whoever and wherever they were, for bringing me home today.